 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
93
CONFESSION.
Alas, how many vain and bitter thingsMy zeal, and pride, and natural haste have wrought;
Yea, thou my soul, by word and deed and thought,
The curse of selfishness hath scorch'd thy wings:
There is a fire within, I feel it now,
A smouldering mass of strong imaginings
That heat my heart, and burn upon my brow,
And vent their hissing lava on my tongue
Scathing, unsparing:—yet my will is just,
My wrath is ever quicken'd by a wrong,
I flame—to strike oppressors to the dust,
To crush the cruel, and confound the base,
To welcome insolence with calm disgust,
And brand the scoffer's forehead with disgrace.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |